


Aubade

by TheLadyOfWorlds



Series: The Poet and the Muse [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Internal Monologue, Internal musings, Romance, Smutty Thoughts, Varric is a Poet, but no actual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 00:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16754551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyOfWorlds/pseuds/TheLadyOfWorlds
Summary: An aubade is a morning love song (as opposed to a serenade, which is in the evening), or a song or poem about lovers separating at dawn.





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters  
> I am just playing with them. I’ll put them back...mostly unharmed
> 
> * * *
> 
> I've just gotten into this ship and holy heck if it's not already dragging me down slowly into its depths!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr!](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

He often looks at her as if she is the most precious thing in his world; his reward when she catches him is a sun-bright beaming smile and a pink flush spreading over her cheeks and, more beguilingly (at least to him, anyway), across her chest as she looks away from his adoring gaze.

At the moment, he’s looking at her as though he can’t believe she’s real, as though she is a wonderful and beautiful hallucination or perhaps even a crazed fever dream.

It’s the reason he finds himself awake before her, shielding his eyes against the rose-gold light of dawn that illuminations the room with a gentle glow and highlights the golden tones of her fair skin where she’s caught the sun.

It’s the reason he has one hand resting tenderly on her waist, savouring this simple touch and the feel of her skin - impossibly soft and smooth beneath his own rough fingers, despite the silvery lines notching her body like tally marks mapping her life story in scars.

It’s the reason his fingers shift slowly, restlessly on the curve of her waist, splaying over the flare of her hip and ghost up her spine; a smile tugging his lips when she murmurs sleepily and burrows under the blankets.

And, he muses as he presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, it must be the reason his thoughts begin to travel towards the impure as his lips trace gently upwards, brushing the nape of her neck, nipping the skin here and there.

It is impossible not to be overwhelmed by the scent of her: light hints of citrus from her soap, something earthy and smoky from the perfume oil she dabs at her pulse points and the strangely sharp tang of the magic thrumming in her veins.

He breathes her in; this scent so uniquely her that it makes him shiver and causes goosebumps to rise rapidly over his skin.

Another sleepy murmur and he chuckles to himself; a gentle huff of air against her ear and she hums, her eyes fluttering open to meet his, a smile curving her lips as she stretches her long graceful limbs and turns to face him.

This, he believes, is nothing short of perfection - the day slowly chasing away the last vestiges of night, painting her room in pale wintery light as he presses lazy kisses across her back.

This is something he will tuck away in his memories, something to keep for the long days - and even longer nights - when she is away from him and the safety of her mansion or his rooms, protected in his embrace.

Stirred from his reverie by the touch of her hand at his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth in a familiar, tender gesture; he curls an arm around her, pulling her tightly to him as his hand settles back into the curve of her waist and he smudges a kiss at her temple.

Soon, he knows, the morning bells will ring and Kirkwall will come to life, bustling with the usual daily routines of the inhabitants.

As much as he would like nothing more than to bring his Muse to full wakefulness with heated caresses and slow kisses that leave her lips swollen, reddened as though they had been stung; as much as he would like to see the ever smouldering embers of passion coiled within them both to ignite and burn bright and hot as they find their desire sated in each other - he knows that there is not enough time to show her just how fiercely he loves her.

And so he allows this simple touch; his hand on her waist, thumb stroking her soft skin in rhythmic circles to tell her.

She understands, he knows that and when her lips press to his chest near his heart and her eyes turn to his full of love, he feels as though she has stolen his breath away.

A smile, a brief (far too brief but he’ll take what he can) kiss and she lets her breath out in a sigh that he knows the meaning of all too well, and as the bells begin to shatter the silence of the morning, she slips away from him, their fingertips touching until their arms cannot stretch any further, and their day begins.

It is a comfort to feel her touch linger on his skin as he dresses and back to the Hanged Man and as he passes his Hawke he catches her eye, she smiles the sun-bright beaming smile that he knows is his and his alone and that is one more thing to tuck away in his memories.

Later, much much later, when the epic battle of Kirkwall has been fought and won; she presses her fingertips to his chest near his heart and confesses to him in a somewhat shy voice tinged with something like shame that she does something similar - filing a simple touch away in her memories to recall when it is most needed - while he sleeps; hardly daring to believe he is real and that what they have is something good, something that she can - they both can - believe in.

A simple touch, true, but it carries more meaning than either of them can convey in words.


End file.
